


When Janine Met Molly

by Emma_Lynch



Series: Holmes_Hooperverse AU [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Criminals, F/M, Gen, Revenge, Romance, Season/Series 03-04 Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Lynch/pseuds/Emma_Lynch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never really did explain about Janine to Molly.  Why he didn't confide in her when she`d helped him so much before?  Could it be that Sherlock Holmes had something to hide?  And what of Janine? What did her liaison with Sherlock leave her with (Besides a beekeeper`s cottage on the Sussex Downs)?<br/>Janine is a strong woman - a survivor.  But, so is Molly Hooper.<br/>So we need to ask - what will happen when they get together?</p><p>An idea that grew and grew - thanks for prompt from Spuffygirl</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cake

Whenever I`m back up in London, I love to catch up with friends; see my agent; take in a few Bond Street favourites, and no mistake.  I`m a country girl, at heart.  The endless green fields and remote farmsteads of my home turf are always the pull upon the thread when I`m away; but I do love a bit of Big City Luxe.  So, sure, that Tuesday morning, I found myself shimmying my shapely derriere around the sweet little gilded chairs of _La Vanille Patisserie_ on the Strathmore Road in pretty Primrose Hill.

 

My shiny new carriers were a far cry from the quaintly pastel cottages of Clonakilty and its wool shops and greengrocers. Mrs Dougal at the Post Office wouldn’t have been impressed at the contents of said carriers; overpriced slips of lace and gossamer underpinnings, so fine and delicate, they were `not worth a peg` on her washing line.  I smother a snort as I picture Mrs Dougal`s sturdy, giant white pants, blowing vigorously in a good Irish hoolie…ah, bless her.

 

A nice, wee dote has taken my packages for safe keeping while I indulge my passion for confectioner`s custard at a sweet little gold and marble table at the rear of the café.  It has been a few years since I first forged my path into the public eye with my tawdry kiss and tell _sexcapades_ , but people do remember.  I still pride myself on the longevity of my lies.  Truth is stranger than fiction – usually.

 

The dote brings a menu and I order a glass of champagne to begin. Having an hour before meeting Sir George Burnwell, my lovely new agent, I may need to take the edge off and relax. Hey, why ever not? I glance around idly as I wait, dangling my lovely new Choo from my toe. Pale pastel green walls (pistachio?) are offset with gorgeous golden cornicing, and a tremendous vintage chandelier provides a warming glow to tables and patrons alike in the cool October afternoon. Some fella is tinkling the ivories on a pretty impressive mini-grand in the corner and I could not be happier.

 

Then I see them.

 

Oh. My. Life.

 

No; it can`t be!  Then the tilt of his head and that beautiful slab of cheekbone and I know; even before I see the colour of his eyes.

 

His hair is a little longer – I remember those dark curls... touching them… that pale skin…that mouth…

 

Thank Christ, my wee daydream gets banjaxed by the dote, bringing the champagne. Never have I needed it more, as I watch Sherlock Holmes – the cutest of the _cute hoor_ ; the man who got me where I am today – sitting and drinking coffee … with a _girl_.

 

I really don`t want him seeing the clip of me – or eating the head off me for my little revelations; but my hammering heart quietens a fair bit when I take a slug of the champagne and slouch down in my seat. Ah, Sherl forgave me ages ago. He knows I was only acting the maggot on all those daytime shows and newspaper articles to get my own back. As if either of us still hold a grudge.

 

Who is that shiny haired fine thing with him? She does look kinda familiar come to think of it.  Hang on – if she isn’t that yellow dressed girl from wee Mary`s wedding – oh yes! She was with Meat Dagger man…that was a brutal little speech that poor fella made. No wonder Sherl made mincemeat of him.  That`s my Sherl – one look from those iceberg eyes and you just shut the feck up.

 

I glance down and realise my glass is empty and my marron glace custard mille feuille is before me, ready for my delectation. Grand.  A refill? Rude not to.  I still have forty minutes before meeting gorgeous George and I am very curious as to the body language I am seeing before me.

 

The yellow dress girl is fairly smitten with Sherl – clear to see and easy to understand. He was (and is) quite the charmer when he wants to be.  I should know, folks.  She is a pretty wee thing. Hair swinging around her shoulders, and the sweetest brown eyes. I look down at my marron glace – yeah…sweet chestnut girl.  Her face constantly turns to smile at him – I get it – I remember that. I hear the faint, deep rumble of his voice, but not his words.  She is quiet, but I am further banjaxed to see that he seems to be giving her his _full_ attention. His eyes meet hers _so_ frequently and they are often crinkled with amusement at something she has said. That is _fierce_ , and to be admired. The real Sherlock Holmes, the one I subsequently met, after he had done with me, was not much like the fella I`m seeing with this wee canary.  I know well what a tough hearted bastard he can be…Feck! He`s touching her hand! Holding it, even – _unprompted_.  She is looking down at their hands entwined, then up at his face, and – Jesus, Mary, and all the saints of the western world – he is looking at _her_ like she`s first prize at the church raffle! 

 

I seem to have necked that second glass rather quickly and my head buzzes pleasantly, muffling me from the slightly bizarre world I am sitting within.  Two years ago, I quickly learnt that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do _love._ He just doesn’t need it. It fogs up his fecking magnifying glass, or some such shite…I really do apologise – I`m coming across totally _langers._   That is my last drink. Today. I do not need to get _locked_ in front of … Sherlock. 

 

I think I can discreetly get my packages and leave before any confrontation happens, but then a sudden and shocking thought muscles its way into my cotton-wool brain.  What if Sherl is up to his old tricks again with that sweet, little thing (Milly? Mandy?)  What if he`s putting on all his moves to manipulate her, the way he did with me? That is just, plain _wrong._   No amount of dark curls and beautiful mouth is worth that feeling you get when you find out. It`s shite, let me tell you. 

 

Suddenly, though, he makes a sharp move to stand and it`s all I can do not to drop and roll beneath the table…but, phew, it`s ok. Sherlock Holmes shucks on his (pretty sexy) coat and hoiks up the collar – natch. I am hidden beneath La Vanille Pattiserie`s generously sized menu as he leans into the seated sweet chestnut girl (Melanie?) and … oh my… _would ya get outta that garden_! He is actually _kissing_ her. On the mouth! For more than a second or two, I can tell you!   Then, as my eyeballs are adjusting, he is gone, in a swooshy twist of coat, scarf and door; it tingling shut and letting in a cold blast of autumnal air.  Sweet chestnut canary girl watches the door for a wee second with the most gorgeously beatific smile on her lips, before rootling in her bag for her phone and starting to text. 

 

It`s then that I decide, in my slightly blurry condition, what is going to happen here.  Maisie (or whatever) is going to thank me for it soon enough, when I warn her about the trouble that comes along with that man.  Janine Mckenna, you can wipe all the bad karma out of your lazy old life by doing one thing really right. Find her; meet her; warn her.  Sherlock Holmes, you chancer, this is the last girl you`ll make a show of for your own ends. Just wait and see.

 

 

X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x

 


	2. SERVED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which:  
> Molly receives a warning, and John receives the best laugh he`s had in ages...

I smile and blush (smush? Blile?)  as I read the text; sent seconds after Sherlock had left.

 

` _You taste of strawberries. Explain? SH_ `

 

Rapid fingers.

 

` _Strawberry tart. What happened to deduction? MH_ `

 

Almost instant reply:

 

` _Negative. You always taste of strawberries_.`

 

If someone had asked me, two years ago, if I was happy, I would have smiled politely, nodded and, doubtlessly said _yes, of course_! Not all of the time, naturally, but who is happy all of the time? We all have low days and sad days and I-can`t-get-out-of-bed days, don`t we? Only, now, I know that was just a bunch of platitudes – another way of saying I was ok, but happy – ??  Because now… _now,_ I AM happy –  _all of the time_.   And, I know my life before was just a practise; a dress rehearsal; for the real thing. THIS, now, is _the real thing_.

 

My shockingly self-indulgent little reverie (where _did_ I get that word from? It just creeps up on you!) is interrupted by Laura, the waitress (we are quite the regulars here – snatching time in between cases and cadavers, for coffee and cake) bringing me a little tray with a card on it.  Strange – Sherlock paid on the way out.  But it wasn’t the bill.

 

**Janine McKenna**

**Personality; actress; author**

**Jmk221@hotmail.com**

**Agent: Sir George Burnwell Associates**

 

And on the reverse, scrawled in pen:

 

 _`You are in real danger of major humiliation and brutal unhappiness. I truly want to help. We should meet. Don`t dismiss this – I am no crazy lady. JM.`_   Accompanied by her mobile number.

 

 _God!_  Just being in the proximity of Sherlock Holmes ensures a little craziness comes your way on a fairly regular basis.  Mad deeds and potential danger orbit around him with a gravitational pull.

 

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x**

 

“I would consider her to be an excellent actress, at the very least,” comments Sherlock Holmes, twirling the business card around in his long, elegant fingers.

 

John Watson sits opposite his friend in his old chair in Baker Street.  John is pretty happy, since he has recently been awarded his Master of Arts in Gerontology from St. Bart`s Medical School.  Study had coincided with two babies; getting lured and drugged by a criminal genius and often having to work _cheek-by-jowl_ with Sherlock Holmes in the lab.  It was a miracle everyone had emerged _unscathed; undivorced_ and _un-deaded_.  Sherlock had come pretty close quite a number of times.  This could be one of them.

 

“Sherlock – have you been listening to a word I`ve said? I`ve passed the Masters – with Honours!  No more studying, for at least – forever!”

 

Sherlock glances up at him with hooded eyes, stopping mid-twirl.

 

“Gerontology is an exploration of the biological, physiological, psychological, sociological and political factors involved with the process of ageing. It’s a journey into the fascinating world of human development, exploring all of the intricacies that comprise the human lifespan.  Quite a huge area, John.  Admirable.”

 

 _Git_.  “You know fine well – I was doing a study, on the effects of ageing on aldosterone levels. Aldosterone release decreases with age – we have been through this before, Sherlock.  If you could just stop being so – _Spock_ about it and just say `well done John`…”

 

Sherlock opens his mouth.

 

“ No! – don’t you bloody dare!” John sighs.  Lost cause.  Perhaps there was too much genius in the room already. Change the subject.  “Anyway, what are you talking about actresses for? New client?”

 

Sherlock throws the card over to John.  “Molly was given this card at the Patisserie yesterday.”

 

“`Janine McKenna`? Who - ?” His eyes suddenly widen with realisation and he stands, holding the card.  “NOOOO! Janine! Sherl!”  Massive smirk.  _Huge_.  “Your `ex` squeeze had a face-off with your new girl? Oh, this is priceless!” John is pacing – a dozen scenarios buzzing around his head. “This is – just – let me call _Jeremy Kyle_ ! Was there a punch up? Molly can be pretty fierce…ha ha ha! How can this be happening to you – to _YOU_ , of all the people it could happen to!? ` _Shag-a-lot Holmes_!`  ` _Seven times a night in Baker Street…`”_

 

Sherlock has retrieved the card from his increasingly annoying ex-flatmate. He realises John sees some irony that he should be experiencing this kind of conundrum, but he feels John`s reaction has been a little – _over the top_. This has been happening _quite frequently_ of late.  Sherlock waits for the hysteria to subside. It eventually does, whereupon John Watson asks the inevitable question…

 

“So, how DID you explain that whole business to Molly?”

 

 

 


	3. The Bridesmaid. The Girlfriend. The Fiancee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to tell, Sherlock...

**The previous evening:**

 

Benedict Holmes is fascinated with his wind-up mobile. He will lie for hours (well, minutes anyway) at a time watching the earth and other seven planets of the solar system, rotate around a fat, yellow padded sun above his cot. All the while, the Beatles` _Here comes the sun_ tinkles beautifully as a symphony for the movement of the planets. John and Mary Watson had thought it a hilarious gift, considering his father`s limited knowledge of said solar system. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he had given up explaining the difference between `knowing` and `deleting` to John and Mary.

 

Molly winds up the mobile in her 221A flat, kisses her son on his curly head, and trips, daintily, down the stairs to 221B to see her other boy.  She wants his opinion.

 

Turns out, Sherlock Holmes is fresh out of opinions.  _Amazing._

 

He has been playing the Stradivarius - _Bach's Partita No.3_ , which he has now morphed into _Strange and Beautiful_ by _Aqualung_ , which he knows she loves – as she enters the room. As un-attuned as Sherlock is to the feelings of others, he has an eidetic memory of Molly`s face and knows when something is out of alignment. He stops playing.

 

`Problem?`

 

Molly hides a smile.  He is getting rather good.  She holds out the card.

 

 _“_ Sherlock, am I _in real danger of major humiliation and brutal unhappiness?_ And, if so, why?”

Not good.

 

Sherlock turns the card over in his long, elegant fingers.

 

“The Bridesmaid. The girlfriend. The fiancée.”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

“I met her at the hospital, you know. When you were so ill – unconscious – near to death.”

 

Sherlock`s eyes widen slightly. Nothing had ever been said.

 

Molly smiles, slightly. “I liked her.”

 

“Oh?” He has put down the violin and is standing next to the mantelpiece; absently touching Billy the skull on his shiny cranium.

 

“Yes. She was funny; honest and very direct. She told me about the fake engagement. Sherlock – you have _got_ to stop giving engagement rings out so recklessly…”

 

Sherlock is looking into Billy`s eye sockets for – answers? He knows something is twisting in his gut and causing an unpleasant churning in the pit of his stomach.  Molly is speaking again.

 

“Just tell me something – “  He looks into her eyes.   _Anything.  I would say anything to you right now to make this feeling go away._

She tilts her head before asking:

 

“It _wasn’t_ the skunk ring from the Sylvius divorce case, was it? The one you gave to me when I was false-engaged to Tom?” Sherlock`s frozen expression tells her everything she needs to know.

 

And Molly Hooper starts to laugh.  She laughs so much, she has to put her hand over her mouth in case she wakes Ben. Tears are rolling down her cheeks and she has to sit down on the rug, next to the Persian slipper.  Sherlock is still holding Billy as he sits down beside her and allows himself a smile. 

 

“Hatton Garden was shut.” He puts down the skull. Molly is wiping her eyes. Sherlock feels the churning start again. What IS this?  “Molly. I should have told you about my planned deception of Janine. I had shared so much with you, it was quite logical you should have shared this subterfuge also.”

 

Molly has calmed considerably. She has a fair inkling what the warning on the card is all about. She also knows, however, that she must let Sherlock explain – he looks most – _disconcerted…_

“John was on his se – _honeymoon_ , and I had the chance to meet with Janine and gain access to Magnussen`s office. It was of the utmost importance I did so.”

 

_Absolutely! The man peed in your fireplace, for God` sake!_

“There were no less than seven occasions that I had the chance to share my plans. Each of those seven times, I failed to do so.”

 

Oh gosh…it was a confession.  Sherlock looks longingly at the empty Persian slipper.

 

“Molly – “

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Molly, John Watson often is a sounding board in matters of a – moral and sensitive nature.  Where I may be…lacking in these areas, he…advises.”

 

“And he wasn’t here.”   _But I was._

 

“Exactly.”  Deep, deep breath. Sherlock leans back against the sofa leg and closes his eyes.  Emotions were a very mixed bag – a pick and mix with way too much liquorice and mint imperial amongst the Haribos.  Sherlock loves Haribos.

 

“Molly, I didn’t tell you what I was planning with Janine because I – thought…I thought it would – hurt you. I knew it was something you would not approve of (just as John didn`t) and you would think less of me for it.” Looking down, into the empty sockets of the long dead Billy. “And I didn’t want you to think less of me.” Looking up.  At her. “I still don`t.”

 

After she has kissed him, Molly sits up straight against the leg of John`s old chair (the conversation has taken on a Japanese style level of discourse – still on the floor) and makes a decision.

 

“I am going to meet her though,” she announces.

 

“I know you are,” sighs Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

 


	4. The Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which:  
> Janine sobers up and Sherlock makes a new enemy...

Do I not have quite the woolly head the next morning! Sir George was mad keen to impress and his Mayfair office was more than fierce.  So was his cocktail cabinet.  Ah, heck, I think I`m coming across as quite the booze hound, but I can assure everyone that I don`t often get as locked as on that day.  George _did_ have the best champagne and I _had_ had quite the shock in La Vanille.  _Yikes_. Still can`t quite get over seeing Sherl like that.  Didn’t he just look quite … well, that is ancient history now.  Despite the mad headache from being so _fluthered_ , I do not regret sending that warning to sweet canary girl. There is no way on God`s earth that Sherl isn’t using her to get some shite Lord or criminal mastermind banged to rights; it is his M.O., damn straight. 

 

Padding down my hall towards a fierce coffee-fest in that kitchen (coffee is all I make in _that kitchen_ , I assure you) I notice my mobile flashing with a message:

 

_Hi. I don`t think you are crazy, but am prepared to meet you if you think it will help. See you at the Morgue (Bart`s) 2pm tomorrow. Molly Hooper_

Molly Hooper! Molly! Ah, heck, that was it! I rustle in the (pristine) cupboard for a coffee filter. Wow Sherl…you are so, so busted…

 

…the _morgue_?! What the feck…!

 

**Xoxoxoxoxoxoxox**

John Watson walks into Baker Street to see Sherlock cross-legged on the floor amidst a virtual avalanche of magazines and newspapers.  He is currently flicking through _OK_ magazine.

 

“ _OK_?”

 

“Fine, thanks.  I do have a bit of a problem, though.”

 

John shakes his head. “You`ve become interested in the X Factor and celebrity detoxes? Is this to do with having a girlfriend, Sherlock? Are you, maybe, looking for _shared interests_ with Molly?” He is grinning. Never will he get used to Sherlock Holmes ` _having a girlfriend_ ` - and as for ` _having a child_ `…

 

Sherlock lowers his publication, frowning. “I don`t even know what language you are speaking, John.  No, I have had several emails over the past few months from seemingly totally separate cases. No commonalities at all, bar one.`

 

John has cleared a space to sit down amongst the celebrity paper trail.  “Their brand of fake tan?”

 

“Nope…their agent.”

 

 

Sir George Burnwell had his greedy little fingers in a great many pies.  Not content with his fifteen percent commission; he used his celebrity client base very much to his own ends.  Lured in by luxurious offices in Kensington Palace Gardens (` _Billionaire`s Boulevard`_ and home to the Sultan of Brunei); irresistible freebies and invitations to premieres; clients become so enamoured of Sir George, they often find themselves agreeing to a little more than appearing on chat shows and auditioning for low-budget sci-fi movies. A name dropped in the right ear or a shared address book or stock market secret, was worth considerably more to Sir George than his percentage. The fact that some of the – practises – were not only _bordering_ on the illegal, but passing into its passport control and straight to its capital city – was not usually a problem.  _Until it was_.  Several frightened B-listers had contacted Sherlock Holmes in order to get out of their unorthodox contracts.  There was fear and loathing in West London. Unfortunately, Sir George wasn’t prepared to back down quite so easily – until he met Sherlock Holmes.

 

“I visited his offices yesterday.  Seems Sir George has quite a weakness for music.  His client list is very recording artist heavy and he has several of his own gold discs on the walls from the early sixties. He once supported the Beatles –  ah…”

 

Impressive -  However, mid-discourse, Sherlock has leapt up from his celebrity paper trail and left the room; only to return less than sixty seconds later with a sleepy, blue-eyed, curly-haired miniature version of himself slung over his shoulder, and a beaker of milk in his hand. Benedict is placed carefully down, amongst the papers, and handed the milk by his grave looking father.

 

“Apologies, Ben. I was entrusted by your mother to give you this, just over six minutes ago. As your godfather has distracted me slightly with his demands upon my time, I hope you see fit to forgive us both.  And, not to mention it to your mother.” Benedict has his mother`s lovely nature and just grins and makes a variety of noises at his father, whilst waggling the cup in his direction.

“Thank you, no,” says Sherlock, as if in a perfectly normal conversation. “I prefer Darjeeling.”

 

And John just smiles and hunkers down to chat to Sherlock`s son.

 

**Xoxoxoxoxox**

Sherlock`s appointment with Sir George Burnwell was at 2pm. By ten past 2, all the niceties had been thoroughly dispensed with.

 

“ – and your third wife, combined with your weakness on the Poker table ensured no happy retirement fund, unless a – shall we say – expansion of your business was set in motion – that is, the manipulation, deception and eventual blackmail of many of your more vulnerable clients…”

 

Sir George, a small, white-haired bespectacled man in a Dolce & Gabbana suit, seemed to draw himself up to quite an impressive and intimidating size. His face had grown puce as he glowered over his mahogany and mother of pearl inlayed desk at Sherlock Holmes.  He opened his mouth to speak, but no-one is quite as rapid-fire as Sherlock.

 

“…your cuffs; your re-framed artwork and dented index finger tell me most of what I need to know. My esteemed colleague and ex-cellmate of yours, Shinwell Johnson, tells me the rest. Sit down, Sir George – you are probably risking an aneurism, considering your blood pressure ( _atenonol tablet blister pack in your waste paper bin_ ).”

 

Sir George Burnwell slowly and venomously resumes his seat. He says nothing but his eyes say _swimming with the fishes_ …

 

Sherlock affects not to notice and continues.

 

“Recent stock market traffic suggests big investments in the public flotation of Thor Bridge Music Inc., a blue chip download site which has a 45% share of the current download market.  Thanks to your client base and its far reaching influences and insider dealing; at the start of trading the day after tomorrow, you will own a 51% share of Thor Bridge Music and thus control a vast proportion of the highly lucrative download business. You will have a monopoly.”

 

Fingers drumming on the desk.  The business man looks at the detective. No amount of champagne was going to sway this occupant of his office.  Eventually, George sighs and speaks in his slight and whispering manner.

 

“It seemed to me you held an empty deck when you arrived, Mr Holmes. I am not sure, even now, how much actual proof you have…”

 

Sherlock`s eyes flash and his mouth twists slightly at the corners.

 

“Are you perhaps wondering if it is worth – the gamble? Be. My. Guest.” Sherlock sits back and lets the pieces fall where they may. No-one can out poker-face Sherlock Holmes, however.

 

“What do you want?”

 

Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow.

 

“A severely reduced client list. Let them go as they wish -  no strings attached and no retainer. Oh, and any brokering with Thor Bridge on Thursday will result in a telephone call to DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard…he owes me a favour.”

 

And Sir George has the grace to know when the die has been cast.  And lost.

 

 

 

 

**xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox**

 

 


	5. What I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which:  
> Two Ladies of Sherlock meet and greet.  
> Let`s hope, for Sherlock`s sake, it isn`t a bit not good...

Molly Hooper greets me warmly, yet I still suppress a wee shiver as I enter _The Morgue_.  Sheesh, I really thought the only time they`d get me in here would be with a label on my toe – just goes to show the _Sherlock Holmes effect_.  That man was made for weird. Too bad for me and the Mollster here, that the Lord has seen fit to combine _weird_ with a hefty dose of _sexy_.  I sigh. A cross to bear, and no mistake.  Molly Hooper directs me to a stool next to a kinda bench thingy. I seriously hope there are no rotting corpses decomposing nearby.  That lunchtime fettucine is not sitting well with me.

 

I contemplate Molly Hooper (as I am sure she is contemplating me). Swingy pony tail and sweet brown eyes still in evidence. Sure, she`s tiny too – I am perched on top of one of these here bar stools, feeling like a heffalump. She`s wearing a baggy white, _heinously_ unflattering lab coat which is doing a real poor job of hiding her baggy, colourful outfit. Ah, no! Sure, don`t think I`m being the bitch here – she is truly a pretty girl with an open and –  _honest_ face; which makes me feel even more like making a holy show of Sherl for doing this to her!

 

_God, she`s so pretty. Cascading film star glossy dark hair – waving provocatively across her forehead, making her look up from beneath it. Sexy.  And her figure! Va-va-voom! Janine McKenna knows how to showcase that hour glass body. Reiss coral pink blouse, silkily clinging to every curve; and what looks like a Vivienne Westwood black velvet pencil skirt, which skims and kind of undulates in the laboratory lights. Combined with the black patent Jimmy Choos, the end result is a very desirable package. Holy crap – Sherlock must have been insane to dump this beautifully wrapped Celtic goddess!_

After a fair few moments of us sizing the clip of the other, I can see I`m going to have to weigh in. Molly Hooper looks like a hypnotised bush baby – maybe I am the snake?

 

“Well, we meet again – oh shite – that was _so_ piss-poor! Sorry.”

 

She smiles, thank God! And I think the ice may be a little bit broken.

 

“Coffee?” _Please don`t say black, two sugars…_

 

“Ah, sure, no thanks.  This place – it sort of takes away the impulse to ingest – “   I consider.   “ – actually, could I come more often? I`m really trying to lose weight!”

 

At that, Molly Hooper lets out a little snort. Ah, she`s a snorter, this one?

 

“Oh, I know! The smell and – _atmosphere_ – sort of take a bit of getting used to. I`ve been here a fair few years. Cut up a lot of people, so I`m used to it now.”

 

My big old eyes widen. I think to myself that it probably doesn’t pay to underestimate Molly Hooper. She`s probably pretty smart, too – like Sherl. Too bad the fecker makes you fall in love with him so you`re blinded to his motives. I steel myself, since I don`t want this wee sweetheart getting hurt for another single second.  She needs to skedaddle away from the beast of 221B like a scalded meerkat and find herself a nice, sensible fella, who doesn’t just lie and lie and lie…

 

“Molly.  I don’t know you that well, but I saw you the other day, with Sherl…ock, and I`m fairly sure you are going to get hurt. He is not what he seems to be. Believe me, I know him.  You saw what he did to me, and I just need to tell you that, as pretty as he is; and a sexy as he looks in that swooshy coat; he is going to break your heart.”

 

My voice wobbles a bit towards the end, but I`m real glad I got out my wee speech. However, she hasn’t moved, or commented and I find myself totally unable to read her expression or gestures. _Is this what it feels like to be Sherl_?

 

Molly Hooper stands up from her stool and walks over to the coffee pot in the corner. I kinda realise now that bodies don`t actually lie around in here – this is more a test-y; chemical-y science sort of place. A lab.  She brings back her cup and warms her hands around it. She may be in shock – her face is so calm; but her brown eyes meet mine and they are …steady …and sympathetic?! What is the craic here? Why is she being sympathetic towards ME?  Must be shock.

 

“Molly – I am not some holy Joe, trying to cause you any further pain – quite the opposite, in fact. He will break you – I promise. He wants something you have and he`s shamefully using your sweetness to his own ends.  _I know him_ – “

 

“I know him, too.” She cuts in, shocking me into silence. She is quiet, calm and as sure as a hickey on prom night.  I try to recover my ground.

 

“You think you do, Molly, but you don`t.”

 

“I do, Janine. I really do.”  I am silenced again. Talk about your understated strength. She hasn’t raised her voice one notch, but I am banjaxed by her certainty.

 

“Molly, you two look fairly – new…I lived with him for nearly a month – you just won`t know yet what that chancer is like! He doesn’t need anyone`s love; he isn’t capable of returning anyone`s love. Have you even met Mykey? Look at the clip of the two of them – not exactly rolling in puppies and rainbows in Holmestown.”

 

And Molly Hooper snorts again – louder this time; and coffee splurts out all over a rather pricey looking bit of kit. I hope it wasn’t doing something important… Holy Mary! The girl is openly laughing now – laughing, choking on coffee and hiccupping all over the shop. I`m a feared I`m going to have to call for help ( _who would hear me_?) when gradually, the spluttering and hiccupping slow right down to a manageable level. She is mortified; shaking her head and wiping her mouth.

 

“I`m so sorry, Janine – you are _so_ funny. But you`re _so_ wrong.  About Sherlock.  About me.”  She puts down the cup.  “Tell me,” says Molly Hooper. “Tell me what you know about Sherlock Holmes.” And she tilts her head to one side, and crap – she looks _just_ like him…

 

Who Is Sherlock Holmes? 

 

I know he loves dark, rich Colombian filtered coffee to keep him buzzing and his mind racing.

_I know he drinks Darjeeling tea, because it comforts him and helps him think clearly._

 

I know his favourite city is New York. The city that never sleeps. The bright lights and twenty-four hour hustle and bustle.

_I know he loves his London town. Every backstreet; every café; every shop; every monument – and the Thames flowing through it; connecting everything in its beating heart._

I know he used to love to listen and hear me chatter away – nineteen to the dozen. We could spend hours together – me telling him all about my day and him soaking it all up, in silence.

_I know how he loves to tell me about his latest case and let me deduce outcomes in my own way – I`m getting better – and how his eyes crackle and spark when he`s telling me why that cursive letter `e` was so incriminating…_

 

I know how his wee housekeeper irritates him. She was always bustling about and messing with his kit.

_I know how Mrs Hudson is his landlady (not his housekeeper) and that he turned her life around, ridding her of a murderous ex. And that they both love each other and annoy each other in equal measure._

 

I know that he is a highly-functioning sociopath; unable to understand the finer feelings and emotions of others. He can`t make or keep real friendships and only ever operates on a truly selfish level.

_I know that Sherlock Holmes is no sociopath. He has shown himself to be loving, empathetic and more than aware of his own faults and foibles (of which there are a fair few).  He has treated people badly (both of us, in point of fact) but has shown a conscience and a will to make things right. He has real love for his friend, John Watson and would willingly risk his life and limb for him. He is also quite fond of his brother and Greg Lestrade. His Homeless Network love him (in their own, unique ways) and he makes sure they are well catered for. He is even training up Wiggins as an assistant._

 

 

Molly Hooper and I look warily at each other.  We have battled this little scene out to its near completion and I am feeling punch drunk, truth be told ( _I said, punch drunk! I did learn my lesson the other day_ ). I need to make one more attempt before I go.

 

“Ah, Molly,” I say, softly. “Sherl – no matter how much you believe in him – isn’t much of a keeper. He is married to his work; plain and simple. It is all he has and all he wants.” Internal debate…ah, shite – go for it... “And he`s a bit of a cold fish ( _I lower my voice and whisper – I`m in the fecking morgue, for feck`s sake! Who`s gonna hear?_ ) in the boudoir…”  Her eyes widen, as they should.  “For all I lived with him for almost one month (virtually) – he barely touched me…and – _say it I shouldn`t_ – I`m no horror story in the sack!”  She seems unable to speak, so I continue.  “Molly, there was no Beast with two backs in Baker Street.”  And she puts her face in her hands and doubles over on her stool.

 

After around two or three mighty minutes, Molly Hooper has just about finished laughing. Yeah, I`m funny – sure, I get it. I just don`t think what I`m saying is sinking in.  Surely, she has heard what I`ve had to say about Sherl?  She must know how well I know him.  She must believe me…

 

And then, Molly Hooper comes around to my side of the bench, with an iPad in her small, capable hands and touches it gently to start a home-made video.  And as I see the teeny, wee dote of a boy, with his Icelandic clear blue eyes and shock of dark curls, toddling around a very familiar coffee table and laughing gummily at the camera; I feel a savage lurch in my chest and I realise …  I never really knew him at all.

 

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

 


	6. Being Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Janine`s had a pretty rubbish week...now, what could possibly make it even worse?

Jesus, it`s been a brutal week and that`s a fact. The house is a kip; I got a parking ticket outside the Morgue (of all places); I`ve a feckin great spot on my face; Sherlock Holmes has a real girlfriend _and_ a baby boy and, to top it all, I`ve been dumped again – by Sir George Burnwell! My nearly-agent! He was going to open so many doors for me, I just knew it.  And we seemed to get on so well at our meeting last Tuesday. Maybe I got on a little too well? Janine McKenna doesn’t usually do self-doubt, but maybe the champagne was really a bad idea after all? Ah, shite. No use raking over old coals. What`s done is done and, let`s face it – I`ve been disappointed by men since pussy was a kitten.

 

Thus, I sit, having a wee wallow, in La Vanille Pattiserie, that Sunday; picking over the strange events of a very strange week. I`m morosely stabbing at my flat white with a silver, twisty-handled spoon when I sense Laura, the wee dote, hovering next to the table. Bless her – always ready with a slice of cake for what ails ya.

 

Only, it isn’t Laura.

 

“May I sit down, Janine?” Asks Sherlock Holmes; all tall, dark and coat-wearing, and holding a piece of marron glace mille fueille. In another time and another place, this would definitely be fulfilling a fantasy of mine…

 

“Oh, yes, Mister – you may. I must warn you, however, I have not had the best of weeks, so be kind.”

 

He pulls out a chair and places the cake in front of me. I manage a weak smile and I see something in his eyes I have never seen before, even when we were `together` and he was pretending - _care_.

 

“You changed your perfume.  I like the oriental notes. Sandalwood? St. Germain No. 17, at a guess.”

 

I smile again, and slowly nod my head.  “You`ve changed your – _everything_ , haven’t you? At a guess.”

 

Sherlock tilts his head ( _exactly like her_!) and looks speculatively into my eyes.

 

“Your agent was no great loss Janine.”

 

“How the feck – “

 

“Trust me.  He wasn’t right for you.”

 

Now _, I`m_ snorting.   Trust! “And you would know what was right for me, Sherlock Holmes! You could be telling me just about anything right now.”  _You lied to me. You lied and lied…_   But, I find my venom is kinda – _spent_.  It has been, really, since I met with Molly. I am ashes where once I was fire. And it`s good. It`s better.  It`s right.  I look at Sherlock Holmes and I think – _I kind of like him_ …

 

“Your mad in love with her aren’t you? For real.”

 

His fingers (never completely still) are tracing patterns in some spilt sugar next to my marron. He looks up suddenly.

 

“All evidence surely does point to – “

 

“Sherl…”

 

He gives it up, nodding, speculatively.

 

“Molly.  She is the first – and only – woman I have ever trusted with my hard and stony heart.  So, yes, I truly am. Just don’t mention it to John – he likes to make a big thing of it.”  His eyes crinkle as I reward him with a tiny grin.  I`m glad for him.  Really, I am. And I know Molly Hooper is the girl for him. Everything she said to me and everything I see in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes tells me so. She is the perfect balance to his cold, edgy and cerebral character; with her calm humanity and sparkiness. Sure –  no pushover either.

 

“Janine…I treated you very badly, which you did not deserve. You, in turn, took your sweet revenge, which I _did_ deserve. I hope you can see now that I am truly sorry for my deception.”  He shifts kind of awkwardly in his chair (these wee golden chairs are real pretty, but a bit spindly and delicate for sitting in for long).  “I am relatively _new_ to the rocky road of human interaction and its infinite complexities, but I really would like it if – at some point –  we might be – friends?”

 

Well…Sherlock and me – friends? Well, that`s neither fish, nor fowl, nor good, red herring…

 

“And what would Molly say about that?”

 

He smiles an honest smile.

 

“She insisted upon it, “ says Sherlock Holmes.  No longer the _cute hoor_ , but the lover;  the father;  the human being.

 

_X0x0x0x0x0x0x_

 

A month later, at John and Mary Watson`s flat in Kentish Town…

 

John sits opposite his son, Sholto.  Both are smeared with foodstuffs which John knows for a fact, will never _quite_ wash out of their clothing.  They have reached a state of impasse and near exhaustion in the fight for the organic butternut squash risotto. John wants it inside his son; Sholto wants it everywhere else. It is clear that there is not going to be a winner here.  Just as he is about to thrown in the spoon, the door slams and – thank the lord – Mary is back home.

 

“John, there`s a package here in the porch; didn’t you s – Holy crap! Did the microwave explode again, or is this a dirty protest? If you clean it up quick, there`ll be no names – no pack drill.”

 

“Oh, you are quite – hilarious!” John takes a tea towel from his sniggering wife and eyes the package in her hands. It is flat; rectangular; around thirty by forty-five centimetres in size and – _feeling it_ – quite heavy.

 

“A frame – that`s what it feels like.  Have you ordered a picture or something, Mary?”

 

From the kitchen (where he suspects she has Sholto in the sink and is running him under the tap)…”Only that naked one of me on a tiger skin rug – oops! That`s another surprise ruined!”

 

John, despite having rice matted in his hair, allows himself a little smile at his wife as he rips open the brown paper and bubble wrap.

 

“Oh – “

 

And Mary comes in to see her husband holding a beautifully framed Masters of Science Certificate, complete with accompanying card.

 

` _Well done John. You are a remarkable man, and a remarkable friend. SH_ `

 

“He`s had it framed for me.”

 

Mary, holding her damp toddler, looks a little mistily at her husband.

 

“It must have been delivered to Baker Street by mistake. That was so sweet of Sherlock.”

 

John holds up the certificate and smiles.

 

“You know – I really _do_ like him having a girlfriend,” says he.

 

 

THE END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh - I do love those Irish colloquialisms! I want to talk like Janine!
> 
> Acting the Maggot - fooling and messing around  
> Dote - sweet, little thing  
> Banjaxed - broken  
> Cute hoor - someone who quietly manipulates things to their own advantage  
> eat the head off - to give out to someone; tell them off  
> Get outta that garden! - never in this world!  
> Langers/locked - drunk/very drunk


End file.
